


Nightmare

by SPowell



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post Sweet Revenge, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-09
Updated: 2012-01-09
Packaged: 2017-10-29 07:06:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/317072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SPowell/pseuds/SPowell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Jeannie Walton dies, Ben Forest seeks revenge on Hutch by burying him alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nightmare

**Post SR**

**Slash**

**Rated NC-17**

**Hutch h/c**

**First Encounter**

**Nightmare**

**By Susannah Powell**

 

A nightmare. Hutch was living a nightmare of the worst possible kind.

The confined, hot space was pitch-black and close, so very close. Every breath soaked up precious oxygen, and he struggled with his rising anxiety so as not to use it up too quickly. There was still time—time to be rescued.

With every miniscule move, dirt sprinkled his face, getting into his eyes and mouth, causing him to spit and choke. The crate barely allowed enough room for him to raise his hand to wipe it away. A heavy, heavy weight pressed down on him from above. He turned his head, his nose touching the rough wood on the side. When would he run out of air? What would it be like to smother to death buried six feet under the earth?

He was trapped and dying to get out. Clenching his fists, he struggled against the instinctive urge to scream and thrash—he’d already done that for long minutes as they lowered him into the ground. It made things so much worse. If he concentrated on remaining calm and lay really still, he could almost convince himself that this wasn’t really happening.

But he couldn’t keep his heart-rate from rising to a painful degree, panic taking over. Hutch began to pant, short almost painful breaths, wanting so very much to sit up, push the lid off, and breathe cool, fresh, free air. But he knew that even if it were possible to get the top off, he would be suffocated by the ton of earth heaped above him. He’d heard it being piled on, shovelful by shovelful, after he’d been wrestled into the crate and the top was nailed shut. He tried it again anyway, dislodging more dirt in the process, and then fell back, choking and coughing feebly. Fingers raw from clawing at the lid, eyes sore from falling debris, lungs aching from restricted breathing, Hutch closed his eyes and began to pray. Sweat poured down his face and gathered under his arms and at his groin as the hot, dense air crept closer, slowly smothering him. It was sweltering. He was in hell. As the minutes ticked away, he began to lose all hope of rescue.

***

It was a nightmare. He was living a goddamn nightmare.

Starsky paced the cemetery lawn, rubbing sweaty hands over his hips as he peered anxiously at the four men with shovels digging frantically into the newly turned earth. Behind him sat the ambulance, its lights flashing, two paramedics hovering nearby, ready to spring into action.

Ever since he’d heard the words—that Hutch had been buried alive in a macabre play for retribution by a sick, twisted con—he’d felt as though he couldn’t breathe. What must his partner be going through? How long could he stay alive under there? Starsky wasn’t even sure how long he’d been beneath the ground. He was nauseous just thinking about it.

An hour ago he’d been in the Chino Men’s State Prison interrogation room, where Forest was being temporarily housed while Folsom had some electrical work done, sitting opposite a man he would sooner tear limb from limb than look at. In Starsky’s book, Ben Forest had already caused his partner more pain than Starsky needed as an excuse to annihilate the man. It took everything in him not to wrap his hands around the mafia boss’s neck and choke the life out of him as he sat there cockily gazing at Starsky from across the table, looking as self-assured as ever-- even in prison garb, but he knew he had to remain composed for Hutch’s sake.

Hutch’s disappearance so soon in the wake of the news of Jeannie Walton’s death left Starsky little doubt of Forest’s culpability. The mobster was still powerful enough, even after four years, to arrange a hit on a cop, and by all reports, he’d still been infatuated enough with the woman to seek revenge, however skewed his reasons for doing it. He’d certainly taken many opportunities over the years to bad-mouth Hutch within the Folsom State Prison walls, according to inside sources. Starsky had stopped trying to figure out the way the unhinged mind worked a long time ago. Understanding his motives wasn’t going to get Hutch out of this hell any faster. Still, as he watched the men laboriously removing the earth that stood between him and his partner, his mind wandered to his conversation with Ben Forest.

_“Tell me where he is,” Starsky demanded, keeping his expression stoic._

_Forest shifted in his chair and studied his fingernails, probably wishing for a good buff and trim, Starsky thought sardonically as he waited out the answer. He knew Dobey was watching from the other side of the one-way glass, and repressed the urge to latch his hand around Forest’s nuts and squeeze the information out of him._

_“Where who is?” Forest asked with an almost coy look that made Starsky’s blood pressure rise dangerously._

_“You fucking well know who I’m talking about!” he spat from between clenched teeth. “My partner, Detective Sergeant Kenneth Hutchinson. You’ve taken him somewhere and you goddamn better tell me where now, you sonnovabitch!”_

_Forest calmly spread his hands out on the table. “Now how could I possibly do that, Detective, when I’m stuck here in this prison?”_

_Starsky bit the inside of his lip to keep from pounding the cocky expression off the man’s face. If he hadn’t been one hundred percent sure when he walked in the room that Forest was responsible for Hutch’s disappearance, he was now. His smug demeanor and superior attitude made it more than obvious._

_“If you’re waiting for me to wax poetic on how almighty powerful you are, you’re gonna have to wait a long time,” Starsky replied snidely._

_Getting no response, he changed tact. “Musta really hurt to hear that Jeannie died,” he said quietly, leaning back in his chair and watching the emotion play over the gangster’s face. Prison had aged Forest considerably, etching creases along his mouth and nose and sagging his jawline. “’Specially since you’re the cause.”_

_Forest’s steely eyes narrowed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”_

_Tilting his chair so that it rested on its two back legs, Starsky propped his left foot on his right knee. Only his death grip on the seat of the chair belied his casual attitude, and Forest couldn’t see that. “Oh, you may not have done it with your own hands, but you killed her all the same. Heard it was a drug overdose.”_

_“I’m not responsible for the drugs. She started that all on her own—if she’d stuck with me, she’d have it all right now.”_

_“Instead of bein’ dead, you mean.”_

_Forest flinched. “Yeah, that’s what I mean. Jeannie thought she was going to have some kind of fairytale life, if she could just get away from me. Well, she was wrong about that.”_

_Starsky watched him, calculating._

_“She coulda had that fairytale with my partner,” he said softly. “If you’da let her.”_

_“No!” Forest yelled, slamming his cuffed fists on the table. The guard standing in the corner took a step forward, but Starsky stopped him with the lift of a finger._

_“Hutchinson killed Jeannie, just as if he’d fed the drugs to her himself! If he’d wanted her so goddamn much, why didn’t he stay with her? He took her from me, and then he dumped her like yesterday’s garbage. I was gonna get out of here and be with her! She came to see me not long ago, did you know that? She said she’d missed me. Saw the error of her ways. I promised her I’d get out and be with her, and it was going to happen!”_

Sure, _Starsky thought,_ once she’d hit rock bottom, she’d turned to him. _“And now it’s not,” he said quietly, never moving._

_“You’re goddamn right it’s not, and whose fault is that? Your partner’s, that’s who! Who do you think’s responsible for her sinking to her lowest level? Who do you think broke her by dangling a dream in her face and then taking it away?” Forest’s voice was gruff with anger._

_“You took that dream away, Forest, when you kidnapped Hutch and juiced him fulla horse,” Starsky replied, keeping all emotion out of his voice._

_“Oh, yeah, I suppose nothin’s ever you cops’ fault, is it? Maybe your partner should’ve just stayed away from her in the first place, you ever think of that?” The prisoner was breathing hard. Leaning back in his chair, he made an effort to calm himself and looked Starsky over with disdainful eyes. “You think you’re so above us all. So why’d Hutchinson want a two-bit stripper in his bed if he was so goddamn superior? He used Jeannie and threw her away, and nothing you can say can convince me otherwise.” He leaned forward and narrowed his eyes. “Now let me tell you, he’s paid for it. With his life.”_

_An icy shudder ran through Starsky’s body. Very deliberately, he got up from his seat, moved around the table, and edged forward until he was standing over Forest. Resting a hand on the back of the man’s chair, he leaned over him, putting his face within an inch of the mobster’s. Their eyes met. “I’m only gonna ask you this one more time. Where. Is. He.”_

_Forest’s eyes swam with a mixture of hatred and victory. “He’s with her.”_

_Intense fear gripped Starsky’s heart, and he was galvanized into action. As quick as a striking snake, he grabbed Forest by the shirt front and lifted him out of his chair. “You tell me where, you fucking bastard, or I’ll rip the information outta you!”_

_For the first time that day, fear appeared behind Forest’s gaze. “I might as well, you’re too late anyway.” He licked his lips and sneered gleefully. “He’s six feet under in a grave right next to hers. Had him buried alive.” He laughed, a sick, evil sound, and Starsky threw him into his chair and bolted from the room._

_“You’ll never make it in time!” Forest shouted after him, laughing harder._

_It had only taken a phone call to find out that Jeannie had been buried in her parents’ plot, and Dobey immediately sent a team of men to the site with digging equipment and called an ambulance to meet them there. It was fortunate that the Waltons had lived in the Los Angeles area and that the cemetery where they were buried was just on the outskirts of town between Bay City and Chino, because every second counted. Starsky knew—he wasn’t even sure how, unless it was from one of the books of facts he liked to read—that the average person could only live approximately an hour to an hour and a half after being buried alive, depending on factors such as aeration of dirt and what they’re buried in. He didn’t know exactly when Hutch had been buried, and in his mind, every second that ticked by was his partner’s last on this earth. His Torino burned rubber to the cemetery, Dobey uncharacteristically mute in the passenger seat as they careened down streets with siren blaring, taking turns on two wheels. At one point, Starsky saw Dobey’s lips moving and knew his superior was praying. Rather than comfort him, the realization scared him to death._

_When they arrived, a team of officers were standing over the Walton plot watching four men midway into a newly turned grave parallel to Jeannie Walton’s.  Dobey and Starsky ran up the hill, Starsky quite a distance ahead of his portly captain. His first sight of the overturned earth almost sent him retching into the bushes. An image of digging his partner up out of the ground only to find him dead haunted his every moment._

“Can’t they go any faster?” Starsky asked, as Dobey came up behind him and put a stilling hand on his shoulder.

“They’re doing the best they can, son,” he said. They stood watching as the dirt piled up to the right of the burial place. Starsky wanted to kneel on the ground and scrape dirt out with his bare hands, but he knew he’d only be in the way. After a time, he became aware of Dobey’s large hand in his and realized he was gripping his captain’s fingers with an intensity that had to hurt. He made a conscious effort to let go and took a deep, cleansing breath, all too aware that his partner was unable to do the same.

“God, what a nightmare—to be buried alive!” Starsky’s voice was tormented. “And Hutch hates closed-in spaces.”

“Easy,” grunted Dobey, reaching for his hand again. The surreality of the situation didn’t escape Starsky; he and his captain were not in the habit of holding hands in moments of crises. But this was _Hutch._

As the diggers began to sink into the hole, the pile beside them growing larger, Starsky inched forward, holding his breath. _Hutch, please be alive,_ he prayed, _please, please, hold on._

***

Each inhalation was like drawing air through a straw. Hutch began to feel dizzy. Up to this point, every thought had been of escaping, but now he found himself wishing for a quick end to this torture. He fought a losing battle for air. A rushing sound filled his ears, as though a torrent of water ran through them, filling up his head, and he began to float.

Somewhere another type of noise pierced his subconscious.

Digging noises.

_Ah, Starsk, buddy. You’re too late._

***

“We’ve hit something solid!” Officer Brannon called from out of the pit. Starsky scrambled to the edge and peered down. The men were kneeling in a place they’d cleared at the bottom of the hole and scraping the dirt off something wooden. It was narrow and long—perfectly proportioned to tightly hold a man of Hutch’s size without much room for movement. _Oh, God._   One of the officers, Starsky thought his name was Harragan, was prying at the lid with a crowbar.

“Trade with me!” Starsky called down to Brannon, extending his hand. Brannon latched onto it and climbed up the side, looking slightly relieved not to have to see a dead brother up close and personal. Seconds later, Starsky was in the hole and helping to pull the lid off the crate. His heart in his throat, he was partly impatient and partly afraid to see what lay beneath.

The men grunted as the last nail came out of the wood and they lifted the heavy lid, setting it to the side. Starsky knelt by the make-shift coffin and stared at his deathly still, ghostly pale partner, feeling completely gutted. With a shaking hand, he reached out and touched the side of the white neck, feeling for a pulse.

“Get him outta here!” he yelled, and all four men worked together to get Hutch out of the box and up onto solid ground.

“He’s got a pulse but he’s not breathing,” Starsky needlessly informed the paramedics who had already scrambled to Hutch’s side and started working on him as soon as they’d pulled him into the open air.

Dobey helped Starsky and the other men out of the hole. Vaguely Starsky heard him barking orders, but all of his attention was focused on the figure on the stretcher, where one of the paramedics was giving Hutch mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

It seemed forever to Starsky before he heard the words, “We got him breathing,” at which point his tensed muscles gave way and he collapsed onto his ass in the dirt. When they began to take Hutch to the ambulance, he rallied, but Dobey held him back.

“There’s no room, Starsky. Let me drive you.”

The trip to the hospital with Dobey driving his Torino would’ve been comical if Starsky weren’t absolutely exhausted and near his breaking point. Seeing his partner all but dead in a coffin six feet under the ground had wreaked havoc with Starsky’s mental state, and the hours of intense worry and strain had taken a physical toll. He was wiped out, but could not rest until he knew Hutch would be okay.

Although intensely relieved to have quite literally pulled his partner from an early grave, Starsky couldn’t help but think about the fact that Hutch hadn’t been breathing when they found him. How long had he gone without oxygen? The possibility of brain damage lurked like an insidious shadow in his mind.

It seemed like hours but was probably only a little over forty-five minutes when the doctor finally announced that Hutch was conscious, breathing on his own, and in relatively good condition. Starsky could go in and see him. With a brief glance at Dobey, who wasn’t about to usurp his worried detective’s right as first visitor, Starsky walked briskly through the doors and into the examining room. The nurse led him to an area curtained off from the rest. He thanked her and scraped back the blue drapes on their U-shaped rod to find Hutch lying on an examining table, oxygen tubes in his nostrils, his clothes removed and a white sheet spread over the bottom half of his body. Starsky stood looking at him for a moment, taking in the dirt caked in the white-blond hair and neatly trimmed mustache, the sweat-soaked grime coating the handsome face, and the beautiful blue eyes as they opened to look at him. Topping all that was the heavenly smile that replaced the ravished, suffering expression he’d worn seconds earlier.

Moving forward, Starsky swallowed and placed a hand on Hutch’s bare shoulder. Hutch pulled a hand out from under the sheet and placed it on top of his partner’s and Starsky moved to hold it, wincing when he saw the Bandaids on his fingers. An involuntary shiver ran through him when he pictured how Hutch must have fought to get out of his underground prison. Tears crept into his eyes and he quickly blinked them back, putting on his best smile.

“Doing okay?” he asked inanely. _Good one, Starsk. Of course he isn’t._

Hutch coughed. “Just kind of tired.”

The doctor appeared from around the curtain. “Detective Hutchinson, despite your horrific ordeal, you seem to have come through quite well. It seems doubtful from what you’ve told me, along with our findings, that you were without oxygen for long. Your breathing is good, and has been since the paramedics revived you on site. In fact, all your vitals are quite good. However, you do need fluids and a lot of rest, so admitting you for the night might be a good idea.”

Hutch made a face. “No. I’d much rather go home.”

“Are you certain, detective? Although you are fine from a medical standpoint, emotionally you may find yourself pretty shaky.”

“I’ll take care of him, doc. We’re used to doin’ for each other.”

The doctor nodded, looking at both men. “Well, all right then.” He put a hand on Hutch’s shoulder. “The nurse is bringing you a drink. I want you to continue to drink frequently all evening. And you need to see your precinct psychiatrist. You’ve lived through something terrifying enough to kill a man out of fear alone.”

Hutch nodded and watched him leave. Starsky helped him to sit up and put the scrubs on that the nurse had left him. His limbs were visibly shaking, and Starsky had to support him to stand.

“I’m okay, Starsk, really,” Hutch said, moving forward on his own. His nurse had shaken all the dirt out of his shoes, and Starsky knelt to help him get them on his feet. She showed up with a wheel chair and a large hospital mug of ice water. Hutch took the drink, but he shook his head over the wheel chair.

“I’m not leaving in that.”

Having been in similar situations where all of his autonomy had been taken away leaving him feeling emasculated and useless, Starsky understood Hutch’s need to reassert himself and his abilities.

“I’ll walk beside him. He’ll be okay.” He gave her a wink, and she smiled, taking the offending chair away.

While Hutch signed some papers at the desk, Dobey pulled Starsky aside.

“How is he?” he asked.

“He seems okay. Pretty shaky, but the doctor says physically he’s great.”

Dobey nodded. “I’ll hold off on taking his statement until tomorrow. We’re working on getting all the information from Forest now. Get Hutch home and take care of him.”

“Gladly,” Starsky smiled.

***

“Your place or mine?” Starsky asked when he’d pulled out of the hospital parking lot.

“Mine,” Hutch said, resting his head against the passenger window and dutifully drinking water from the straw sticking out of the large mug.

“You want me to pick up something to eat on the way?”

“I’m not hungry, but you go ahead.”

Starsky decided silence was his best option for the time being. Hutch obviously didn’t want to chat, and he doubted any heavier conversation would be forthcoming for a while. That could all wait. One thing he knew for sure; if he pushed Hutch too far, he’d find himself shut out.

He drove to Venice Place, thinking heavier thoughts than he cared to be thinking. He and Hutch had had plenty of close calls over the years, and Starsky was no stranger to fear. But nothing had ever compared to what he’d felt standing in that graveyard knowing that his best friend—no, more than that—the person that meant the most to him in the world-- was either dead or fast running out of air six feet under the ground. He had never felt so helpless. He knew Hutch had already gone through a similar hell concerning Starsky when he’d been shot by Gunther’s men. They’d weathered that storm and come out the other side, but something was happening inside Starsky that he was barely grasping. Something he had a tenuous hold on. Something that had been a long time coming. Something that he was pretty sure Hutch already had a handle on, but, Hutch being Hutch, was giving Starsky all the time he needed to figure it out for himself.

It seemed to Starsky that he never had the leisure of enough time to do that figuring.

He glanced over at his partner, his heart expanding in his chest. Hutch had rolled down the window and was breathing in the air in a way that made Starsky bite his lip and turn away. His partner had been deprived of life-giving oxygen down there in that dark box, and he was sucking it in now. The thought made Starsky’s stomach tighten. He looked again, relieved that Hutch had settled back against the seat, his dirt-encrusted blond hair blowing all over the place. Starsky wanted to take that look off his face—he couldn’t even identify it, but seeing it on his partner made him sad and anxious at the same time.

He turned down Hutch’s street and found a parking space. His partner was already out of the car when Starsky made it to the other side, evidently determined to show that he was just fine. They climbed the stairs to Hutch’s apartment and entered. Hutch stood looking around for a moment before heading for the bathroom, setting his empty water mug on the table.  Starsky went to get them a couple of sodas out of the fridge, marveling that it had only been that morning when this bad dream had begun. It seemed like it had gone on for days.

Hutch had been boldly and forcibly taken on the street a block from Metro when he’d gotten out of his car that morning. He and Starsky hadn’t driven in together because Starsky had had a dental appointment. He’d been in the chair having his tooth drilled on when the receptionist had called him to the phone, and Dobey told him that someone waiting at the bus stop down the street from Metro had seen two men grab Hutch and shove him into a dark sedan.

Starsky had raced out with only half his dental work done. He was reminded of this when a swig of cold root beer hit his cavity, and he winced. Barely recovered from that, he jumped when the door to the bathroom flew open and Hutch came barreling out. He stopped, breathing hard, and leaned against the wall, his shirt part-way off.

“What?” Starsky asked, putting his drink down.

“Nothing,” Hutch replied after standing there for a moment, catching his breath. “Nothing. I’m gonna take a shower.” Hutch took a breath and went back in the bathroom, but Starsky noticed that this time he didn’t shut the door all the way. He heard the shower come on.

Starsky went and looked through the refrigerator. Finding some ground beef that still smelled fresh, he decided to make spaghetti. Tucking a dishtowel into the front of his jeans, he put noodles into boiling water, aware all the while of Hutch coming out of the bathroom and puttering about the apartment, seemingly unable to find a place to land. Starsky turned the radio to a catchy tune and sang along, hoping his partner would relax a little bit.

When he got the sauce made and the table set, he called, “Soup’s on!” Hutch came to the table and sat down, wearing a pair of loose-fitting pajama pants and a T-shirt.

“You think it’s hot in here?” he asked Starsky agitatedly.

“Hm? No, not really,” he piled some spaghetti on Hutch’s plate.

“You mind if I open the back door?”

Starsky shrugged and watched as Hutch went into the greenhouse and opened the door leading to the back steps. He stood there a minute, taking deep lungfuls of air.

“You okay, buddy?” Starsky asked when Hutch reappeared in the kitchen.

Hutch rubbed his hands over his arms and sat back down at the table.  “Yeah.  I-It’s just stuffy in here, that’s all.”

Starsky watched him take a bite of spaghetti. “You wanna talk about it?”

Hutch shook his head. “Can’t yet.” They both knew the importance of discussing a traumatic situation after it happened. It was the only way of exorcising the ghost of it in order to allow them to move forward. Hutch knew that if he had to rehash the horrific events of that afternoon, Starsky was the only one he wanted to do it with. But he just couldn’t bring himself to go there yet.

And he just felt…smothered. The air seemed denser than it used to. He kept reliving that hour or more he’d spent in the narrow crate, the air becoming hotter and thicker with every breath he took, the darkness enveloping him until he thought he’d go crazy. There had been nothing in the world but that cramped, hot, black, airless space.

Hutch jumped up from his seat, toppling his plate. It clattered to the floor, noodles and meaty sauce going everywhere. He was suddenly sweating and breathing in hard, tight gulps, unconsciously trying to force air in before he ran out completely. Running for the door, he exited the greenhouse and ran down the steps to the alley beside Chez Helene, Starsky right behind him.

“I can’t breathe, Starsk…” he gasped when he stopped, leaning against the side of the building, his chest heaving.

“Steady,” Starsky soothed, holding him by the shoulders. “You’re all right. There’s plenty of air; just take it in. Breathe deep.”

Intellectually, Hutch knew it was sheer panic that was causing him to hyperventilate, but he couldn’t stop himself. His heart beat so hard it hurt. Starsky pulled him close and rubbed his back with firm strokes, speaking gentle words of encouragement in his ear until his respiration finally slowed down and he sagged against him. “It’s gonna be okay, partner,” Starsky told him. “We’ll get through it, one step at a time, just like we always do.”

Hutch pulled away, looking into Starsky’s eyes with an expression full of pain and hopelessness. “But this wasn’t like the other times, Starsky. It was…”

Starsky’s brows went up. “Yeah? Tell me.”

Hutch shook his head.

“You know you ain’t gonna feel better until you get it out, buddy. Tell me. I’m right here; I’ll help you through it.”

Hutch sucked in a big breath of fresh air, holding it in his lungs a moment before releasing it slowly. _God, that feels good. Just to breathe—I’ll never take it for granted again._

Hutch looked past Starsky to a bird sitting on the wrought iron gate that led to the courtyard of Chez Helene.  A bird watcher, Hutch recognized it as a Common Grackle by its unusual yellow eyes. He watched the bird preening itself, feeling a little calmer. “I pulled up at work, got out of the car. I was thinking about a report I hadn’t finished. Wasn’t watching—wasn’t expecting.”

“Why should you’ve been?” Starsky asked reasonably. “If we’d thought you were in any kind of danger, I would’ve been there instead-a getting my tooth worked on.”

Hutch’s mouth twitched and he nodded, still looking past Starsky at the bird on the fence.

“Go on,” his partner prompted.

Hutch licked dry lips. “I-I…” He squeezed his eyes shut and felt Starsky’s steadying hand on his arm. “I didn’t know what was going on. I kept trying to think of who would be out to get me.” He shook his head. “One of the guys—there were two that grabbed me--they were real big—h-he was—I-I thought I…” he couldn’t finish, but Starsky was way ahead of him.

“You thought you recognized him. From before.”

Hutch nodded miserably, a shudder running through him.

“He was one of the guys with Monk,” Starsky supplied.

“Yeah.” Hutch swallowed audibly. That time with Forest and his men had been the worst in his life, but now the mafia boss had managed to top the experience. “It was worse, Starsk. Oh God…even than that.” He leaned his head against the brick and looked upward through the trees to the sky.

Now Starsky swallowed hard. He knew better than anybody how awful those days of being hooked on and then kicking heroin had been for Hutch, and to think that he had now lived through something he deemed worse--it was horrifying.

“They threw me in the back and tied me up, then drove somewhere.  And waited—I-I don’t know what for. I guess for the all clear. But it seemed like a long time. Then they got me out of the van. We were in a cemetery. One of the guys went to—to the back and got out this long c-c-crate.” Hutch’s hands shook as he rubbed them over his arms and then his thighs.  He took a deep breath. “The other guy had me by the arm, leaning me back on the van. He told me that this was a p-present from Ben Forest. They untied me, and I tried to fight, but they were real strong, real big. One of them just slammed me into the c-c-crate, and I tried…” he closed his eyes again and felt Starsky’s hand on the back of his neck. “I t-tried to fight, but they got the lid down and…then they were hammering it shut.” He swallowed thickly and took another big gulp of air. “And I felt them pick up the c-c-crate, and they carried it a ways. I was kicking and yelling all that time, trying to get them to drop me. Then…then I heard them doing something, talking about tying it real good. They started lowering me…down, down a long ways. I k-knew. I clawed at the lid of the c-c-c…” Hutch closed his eyes and forced the word out, “ _crate_.” He began to pant, and Starsky ran his fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, urging him on. He moved closer so that their sides were touching.

“Then I could h-hear the dirt f-falling. They were shoveling it in…it went on forever. It got d-darker and darker. The air was s-so th-th-thick! I could feel all the dirt p-pressing down on me.”

Starsky had never heard his partner stutter so badly. It tore his heart to pieces, but he knew Hutch had to go through this in order to get past it. “Come on, buddy. Keep goin’. Almost there.”

Tears stood in Hutch’s eyes as he struggled to get the rest of it out.

“A-at first, I just went bonkers. I clawed and scratched and screamed. B-but it was no use, and it was so close in there…hardly any room to move. And every time I even shifted a little, d-dirt would fall all over me, choking me. It was so oppressive. I wanted to get up, but couldn’t. I wanted to breathe deeply, but couldn’t. I w-wanted you there, but didn’t think you’d find me in time. Oh God, Starsk, it was horrible.”

Starsky looked down, unable to handle seeing the anguish on his partner’s face. It was hard enough listening to his words of hopelessness and terror.

“I knew I would run out of air faster if I d-didn’t slow things down. So I tried to be calm. I thought of nice things, like conversations we’d had and days at the beach. F-finally, I just gave up. P-prayed for a quick ending. I could barely take in any air at that point. I s-swear I’d just started drifting when I thought I heard the digging. I f-figured you were going to be too l- late.”

The Grackle took off. Sounds from the nearby road and occasional voices from the restaurant filled the silence for long moments as each man fought to compose himself. Starsky knew that he had almost lost Hutch. He’d stopped breathing by the time they got the lid open. A few more minutes could have done it. If he had stopped to take a piss before leaving the prison, or gotten caught behind a slow car….it was terrible to think about. One little bit of happenstance could have made this moment in his life a very different one. Where would he have been now, had Hutch been found dead? At Dobey’s house surrounded by his brother cops? At his apartment or Hutch’s, alone with a whiskey bottle, left forever with the image of his dead friend’s face the moment he’d found him? Leaning in, he wrapped his arms around his partner and held him tightly to him. There was a brief pause and then Hutch latched onto him, squeezing him hard, his body shuddering against his as he cried. Only this feeling of Hutch pressed against him could satisfy Starsky’s aching need to reaffirm Hutch’s safety. Only Starsky’s arms around him and calming voice in his ear could take away Hutch’s pain and fear for blessed, long moments.

“Shh, it’s okay, Hutch. It’s over and I’m here.” He pressed his lips to his wet cheek. “It’s okay. I promise everything’s gonna be fine.”

After a few minutes, Starsky was able to lead Hutch back upstairs. Leaving the back door agape, he opened the window over the kitchen sink to allow a breeze to blow through. Evening was falling. Starsky told Hutch to have a seat on the couch, and he turned on the TV for some inane background noise while he retreated to clean up the mess on the floor. When he returned to the living room, it was to find Hutch still in the exact same position he’d left him in.

He sat down next to him and took his hand. Hutch squeezed it, but didn’t say anything.

“You know,” Starsky began, watching Hutch’s face. “I’d give anything to make it so you didn’t have to go through that.”

Hutch nodded. He looked at Starsky. “But I’d rather it’ve been me than you.” He lifted his right index finger and touched Starsky’s lips in a gesture so intimate it momentarily left both men avoiding each other’s eyes.

After a few moments, Starsky tried to stifle a gigantic yawn as it washed over him.

“You’re exhausted,” Hutch noted, for the first time taking in the tired sag to his partner’s features. “You need to go to bed.”

“I’m not leavin’,” Starsky stated flatly, “so don’t try to convince me.”

“Actually,” Hutch said softly, looking away, “I was going to ask you a favor.”  
“Yeah? What?” Starsky yawned again.

“Will you…will you sleep with me in my bed?”

Starsky blinked, but otherwise didn’t show any surprise. “Sure, no problem.”

Hutch nodded, and let out a breath. “Thanks. Go on. I’m just gonna read in here a while.”

“Okay,” Starsky said agreeably. After supplying Hutch with a fresh drink, he headed for the bedroom. As he undressed, he thought about his partner’s request. It had been fairly standard for the two of them to share a bed in the first month or so after Starsky got out of the hospital. He’d needed his partner so much in the night, to help him go to the bathroom, or to give him a pain pill, that it had really made more sense for Hutch to be in the room with him, and after years of friendship, sleeping together hadn’t fazed them one iota.

Starsky hadn’t only needed Hutch’s presence for physical needs, he knew. He’d needed him just as much emotionally. He hadn’t liked being alone, and he had to think that Hutch was going through something similar tonight, particularly after being locked in a dark box under the ground and slowly suffocated. Starsky shuddered and headed for the bathroom for a quick shower.

When he came out, rather than put on dirty clothes, he took a pair of white cotton boxers out of Hutch’s drawer, pulled them on, and climbed into the bed.

In the living room, Hutch heard his drawer open and smiled, knowing Starsky would be borrowing his underwear. The idea of Starsky’s genitals cradled in the soft cotton of his own shorts made his cock stir, which surprised him, considering his present mental state. He was accustomed to occasionally becoming aroused when his partner was around. It had started long ago—before Gunther.  But at the moment all he could think about was getting through the next hour without going completely out of his mind. If he didn’t have Starsky there with him, he knew he’d never make it through this.

Hutch was terrified to go to bed. If Starsky hadn’t agreed to sleep with him, he knew he wouldn’t be able to face lying in the dark room by himself. He could only hope that this would get better with time, or he was going to either lose a lot of sleep or have to marry his partner. That thought made him laugh.

“Hutch?” came a worried voice from the bedroom.

“Don’t worry, buddy, I’m not coming unhinged. I just thought of something funny.”

“Oh. Wanna share?”

Hutch thought about it. “Naw, it was one of those ‘you had to be there’ things. Go to sleep, pal.”

Hutch took his current book off the side table and opened it to where he’d left off, thinking he’d never imagined then that he’d be thrown into a grave and covered with dirt before he could pick up the book again. If he had, he’d have probably finished the chapter first—it was good. That got another chuckle out of Hutch, and he could hear Starsky stirring in the bed. _Probably thinks I’ve gone nuts. Maybe I have._

An hour later, Hutch gave up trying to read; he couldn’t make his mind be still enough to concentrate. He got up and went to close and lock the back door. Then he went into the bedroom, feeling his way in the dark until his knee nudged the edge of the bed. Climbing in next to Starsky, he curled up on his side, scooting as close to his snoring partner’s back as he could get, enjoying the warmth that emanated from him. All too soon though, the cozy feeling dwindled away and the muggy air beneath the blanket began to close in on him. He poked his head out above the covers and sucked in a breath. Getting out of bed, he opened the bedroom window and then tried lying on his stomach-- anything but supine in the bed, as he’d been in the crate—but he soon found the feeling of his nose and mouth near the mattress stifling—as if something was covering his face and cutting off his breath. Without meaning to, he let out a whimper, and instantly his partner was awake.

“Hutch?” came the sleepy voice from beside him.

“Sorry…maybe you should go get on the couch, Starsk. I’ll keep you up all night in here.”

Starsky ignored that. “What’s the matter? Can’t get to sleep?” The curly dark head turned to face him, although he could hardly see his partner, it was so dark.

Hutch sighed. “Every time I try, I feel like I can’t breathe.”

Starsky rose to his knees. He got Hutch to sit up, fiddled around behind him, and then had him lean back into a nest of pillows so that he was almost sitting up. “That better?” he asked, cuddling down under the covers again.

“Yeah…feels better,” Hutch admitted, “but now you don’t have a pillow.”

Starsky scooted closer and put his head on the edge of the pillow nearest him, which supported Hutch’s left shoulder. “There. Now I do. See if you can sleep, buddy, I’m right here.” Starsky reached out and put his hand on Hutch’s leg and patted it, keeping it there. With his partner so close and the feel of his hand touching him, Hutch was able to slowly drift off to sleep.

***

Starsky jerked awake, confused. Rolling to his side, he got up on his knees and knelt tensely, trying to get his bearings. After a couple of seconds of looking around in the dark, he remembered that he was in Hutch’s bed. The moon had risen and cast a beam of light through the open window and over the jumbled blanket, falling on his partner’s thrashing figure nearby. He was making raw animal sounds, his hands held above him as though pushing at something, a look of sheer terror on his dreaming face.

_Oh, God. He’s living through it all again in a dream._

Immediately Starsky switched on the dim bedside lamp and went to his partner, grasping his hands in his own, being careful of the bandaging. “Hutch! Hutch, wake up.”

Hutch’s hair, shorter than it had been in the past couple of years, curled up as it clung to his face and the nape of his neck in sweaty tendrils. His neatly trimmed mustache was beaded with sweat. Starsky could see he was in a highly panicked state, breathing heavily and laboriously, his eyes moving rapidly beneath the lids.

Starsky let go of one flailing hand and reached up, smoothing the hair off Hutch’s forehead. “Buddy, wake up, please. Come on, you’re gonna give yourself a heart attack or something. Wake up.” Hutch dropped his arms, as though he heard his voice, but his head continued to thrash on the pillow, and his limbs jerked as though restrained. Starsky had never seen such a frantic look on his partner’s face, and his heart went out to him. The last thing he wanted for Hutch was for him to have to relive that horrific experience in the grave. Scooting closer to him, he lay so that a part of his body touched Hutch’s all the way from his head to his feet.

“Partner,” he said into Hutch’s ear. “Wake up, please. Come on. I’ll do anything you want—I’ll take ya to that bean sprout emporium place.” When he got no response, he added, “I’ll take ya to Plant City and buy you all the leafy little friends you want!” In desperation, Starsky hardened his voice, as if they were on the streets, and demanded, “Wake up, Hutch!”

  
The sleeping man cried out, and his hands came up again. His breathed shallowly through his mouth, as though slowly running out of oxygen, and Starsky wondered if a person could convince himself he was suffocating and really die from it.

“Hutch!” _Why the hell wasn’t he waking up?_

Becoming increasingly fearful, Starsky moved closer so that his face was right next to his partner’s. “Hutch, please wake up,” he begged, reaching out to touch his cheek. He thought about shaking him, but he’d heard somewhere that it wasn’t good to wake someone from a dream too forcefully…or was that a sleepwalker? What the hell did it matter if they were walking around or lying down? They were still asleep! He inched closer and pressed his forehead to his partner’s cheek. “Buddy, come on.” Placing a hand on Hutch’s chest, which was rapidly rising and falling as he frantically tried to suck in air, he rubbed it in soothing circles. “Hutch, come on, I’m here…wake up, babe. Come on…you’re scarin’ me. You’re safe, buddy, please wake up.” He gently pressed his lips to Hutch’s forehead.

Was it his imagination, or did Hutch’s breathing slow down a little? He kissed him again, his lips gently brushing his face just next to his mustache. “Hutch? Can you hear me? You’re dreaming. Wake up; it’s time to wake up.” He kissed his cheek again, and then again. No, he wasn’t imagining it. Hutch was definitely calming down. His hand was still stroking Hutch’s chest, and he crooned to him softly as he peppered his face with kisses. “That’s it, that’s it, babe. Wake up for me. Come on, now.”

Hutch’s eye movement slowed behind the lids, and his breathing got quieter. Starsky was still right up next to his face, gently kissing his cheek and jaw, talking to him in a calming voice.

Suddenly, Hutch turned his head and captured Starsky’s lips with his. The kiss was soft and vulnerable, and Starsky was thoroughly taken aback. But he kept up the gentle, closed-mouthed kissing until Hutch settled down completely and fell into a peaceful sleep without ever having opened his eyes.

***

The following morning halfway to Metro, Hutch ordered Starsky to stop the car.

“What’s wrong?” Starsky asked.

“Just pull over, okay?”

Starsky maneuvered the Torino to the side of the road, and Hutch got out of the car, leaning against the door and taking deep, panicked breaths.

“You okay?” Starsky asked, leaning over in the seat and looking up at him.

“I don’t think I can do it, Starsk.” At his partner’s questioning glance, Hutch clarified, “I don’t think I can ride in the car.” Hutch looked so vulnerable and so lost, that Starsky’s heart bled for him. Hutch, who was such a strong person, didn’t feel like he could do something as simple as ride in a car. Starsky knew it had to be tearing him apart.

“Just take it a little at a time, Hutch. Come sit in the car with the door open.”

Hutch looked at him, hesitating. “Come on, it’ll be all right,” Starsky coaxed.

After taking a few deep breaths, Hutch climbed back into the passenger seat.

“That’s good,” Starsky praised. After a few minutes, he said, “Here, why don’t you hold onto my hand, and then close the door.”

Hutch bit his lip, and then did as Starsky suggested.

“It’s gonna be okay, you know, Hutch. Just take baby steps.”

Starsky waited a few minutes, then asked, “Ready?” At Hutch’s nod, he started the car, Hutch holding his hand in a death grip the entire way.

At the station, Dobey spoke to Hutch for a long time behind closed doors. Starsky spent much of that time at the water cooler trying to overhear their conversation, until Officer Burke offered him his water glass. “You can hear better if you place this up against the door.”

 Giving Burke a dirty look, he took a seat at his desk. He was in full protect-my-partner mode, and had been ever since Hutch went missing the day before. It was something that came totally instinctively, and it was hard to break, especially when Hutch was still so vulnerable. That morning his partner had done everything in his power to appear to be fine and over his ordeal, but Starsky knew better, particularly after the night he’d had and what had happened on the way to work. Hutch had never completely awakened in the night, but he’d been restless in his sleep, and had cried out many times. But after the first awful nightmare, Starsky was able to settle him with just a touch and a few soothing words.

The memory of their kisses played over and over in his mind. He was pretty sure Hutch didn’t recall any of it, and Starsky wasn’t about to fill him in. He told himself that it didn’t mean anything; it was just a comfort thing, and truly, if it would’ve helped Hutch awaken from that terrible dream, he would’ve kissed Dobey on the mouth.

As though summoned by that thought, Dobey’s door swung open, and his superior walked into the room, Hutch following, looking drained and shaken. Starsky was out of his seat in a flash and moving toward his partner. He gave Dobey an accusatory look, but his Captain ignored him.

“Here, come take a seat, buddy,” Starsky led Hutch to a chair and then brought him a cup of water from the fountain.

“I’m fine, Starsk,” he objected, but took the water and drank it thankfully.

“Take the rest of the day, Hutchinson,” Dobey said before returning to his office.

“What happened?” Starsky asked, leaning on the desk.

Hutch ran a shaking hand through his hair and let out a breath. “Nothing. Just had to go over it all again. Forest admitted to getting the two thugs to grab me. They were picked up this morning, and I went and i.d.’d them.”

“Why didn’t Dobey tell me? I’d have gone with you!” Starsky objected, and Hutch gave him a look.

“I’m fine, Starsk. You don’t have to hold my hand. Really.” He got up. “Think I’m gonna head home. I’m beat. Don’t feel like I even slept last night.”

“You were really restless.”

“See you later, buddy,” Hutch patted Starsky’s stomach and left.

Hutch had so many conflicting feelings. On the one hand, he wanted to be alone. Starsky was hovering, and he couldn’t stand it. On the other hand, he didn’t want to be alone. Every time he had even a moment to think, he was back in that box. He wanted to be busy, wanted to stay at work, but Dobey had told him in no uncertain terms that he was going to have to talk with the precinct psychiatrist first. The appointment was the next day, so he didn’t have a choice but to leave. He also didn’t want to seem like too much of a basket case in front of Starsky. Although there was no one else he would want to show his vulnerabilities to, the man _was_ his partner, and he put his life in Hutch’s hands on a daily basis. Hutch didn’t want Starsky to feel any less secure about him having his back.

He took a cab home, staring fixedly out the window the entire trip, willing himself not to panic. He ended up taking a long walk on the beach, where he could be in the open air and around people. He found that he couldn’t stand being confined in the least; even being in his apartment was pushing it. He spent several hours just walking and picking up shells that interested him, but when large storm clouds moved in from the east and a gusty wind picked up, Hutch was forced to head back home.

Once there, he opened every window in the place, along with the back door. Lightning flashed and thunder boomed, resonating through the air. Hutch lay down on the sofa and closed his eyes, listening to the storm raging outside. Unbidden, the image of lying under the earth with the storm crashing overhead flashed before his closed lids, shooting adrenalin through his veins and starting his heart racing. The crate so close and humid, the wet dirt dripping down through the cracks and onto his face, water and mud drowning him before he could suffocate from lack of air.

Unnerved, Hutch jumped up and began pacing the room, unable to sit still and let the images torture him further. He looked at the clock. Four P.M. Would Starsky stop by after work? God, he hoped so, but his pride prevented him from calling and asking him to. Catching himself wringing his hands, Hutch clenched his fists and moved to the kitchen and got a beer out of the refrigerator. Popping it open, he took a long drink, standing in front of the kitchen window and taking large gulps of fresh air.

He knew that if things didn’t improve, or if he couldn’t hide it well, the psychiatrist would never okay him to go back on duty. He also knew that it would be a poor idea to try to back up Starsky on the streets in his present condition. The last thing he wanted was for his partner to get hurt because he was having a flashback or a panic attack. Lifting his hands from where they were supporting him on the countertop, Hutch held them out, horrified as he watched them shake. _I’m a fucking mess,_ he thought. _Goddamn it, Hutchinson, get a grip on yourself! You were taken against your will and put in a box, so what? You were rescued and you’re fine. You gonna let that bastard Forest win?_

He ran a hand through his hair and walked to the living room, making his way around the couch and back into the kitchen, never pausing as he made the round again, over and over, around and around, until he was so tired, he collapsed in a quivering heap on the couch.

 _Shit, it took months to get over the heroin thing! How many more months you gonna let Forest take away from you? And look what he did to_ Jeannie _! She’s_ dead _because of him! You’re still alive, Hutchinson, so get your act together! Don’t let him win!_

Hutch hung his head, wondering what he could do to help himself. How was he going to get over this all-consuming fear? It was ridiculous! Here he had every window open and a storm was raging outside. He could already see spots of wetness on the floor from the rain blowing in. Crossing the apartment, he closed the living room window and locked it.

Every time something like this happened, he didn’t feel safe, and he knew that was a normal reaction—to feel as though someone could be hiding around every corner, ready to grab him and make him a victim again. The first time Forest’s goons had gotten him, it was in his own house, and he never felt secure there again. He ended up selling the bungalow and moving into Venice Place. After that, he refused to let anything that happened to him there make him move again. Even Diana Harmon. Even Vanessa’s death.

“I have to take charge of my own life,” he said aloud, moving through the greenhouse to shut and lock the back door. He glanced at the kitchen window, hesitated, then closed and locked it, too. He sat back down on the couch and practiced taking long breaths. That made him think of meditation, something he hadn’t done in a while, so he shoved everything off the coffee table and assumed the lotus position. Lowering his eyes, back straight and hands on his knees, he took several deep breaths through his nostrils, concentrating on the act of breathing. He felt himself calming somewhat, and continued what he was doing. The only thing that wasn’t working for him was the darkness behind his eyelids, so he opened his eyes a little to let in some light.

_Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out._

Beefy arms coming around him, throwing him into the open crate. Struggling hard to get away, but they were too strong. The lid coming down, blocking out the light. The sound of the nails being pounded into the wood, sealing his doom. Lying there…trying to breathe…

_Breathe in. Breathe out._

_Damn it!_

Hutch jumped up, cursing loudly. Anger at his helplessness surging through him like electricity, he looked around the room, face red and lungs huffing like a wounded bull’s. A flash of lightning followed by crashing thunder formed the backdrop as he reached down and flipped the coffee table over, sending it tumbling to rest against the chair. Emboldened by the feeling of power this gave him, he grabbed the lamp off the side table, jerking the cord out of the wall, and threw it onto the floor, the light bulb breaking into tiny pieces and scattering under his bare feet. Chest heaving with rage, Hutch moved to the television set, and yanked the plug.  With a loud grunt of effort, he pictured Ben Forest’s face as he hurled it toward the wall opposite, where it bounced off, leaving a huge dent in the plaster. Snatching up a vase, he slung it as hard as he could toward the kitchen where it shattered against the door frame, his bellow of tortured agony accompanying the next crash of thunder.

The front door flew open and Starsky stumbled in, wild-eyed and gun drawn. Quickly surmising what was going on, he holstered the Beretta and closed the door. Carefully, he stepped over the crumpled lamp and moved toward Hutch, who looked ready to break down.

“What’s going on?” he asked in his most soothing, non-threatening voice, while at the same time trying to calm his own rapidly beating heart.  He’d arrived at Venice Place to hear crashing and yelling coming from Hutch’s apartment. It had scared the shit out of him.

“I was…meditating,” Hutch stated raggedly.

Starsky couldn’t help barking a laugh. “Well, don’t plan on putting out any self-help meditation videos anytime soon, buddy.” He gestured to the mess around them. “I don’t think they’d sell very well.”

Hutch sagged into a chair and put his head into his hands. “I gotta do something, Starsk. I can’t go on like this…”

Starsky got down on one knee in front of him, carefully avoiding the broken glass. “Hutch, it only happened yesterday. Give yourself some time.”

Hutch’s head shot up. “I’m a mess, Starsky! A mess! They’ll never let me back out on the street with you. I can’t close my eyes! I- I can’t stand being closed in!” He looked around wildly. “I can’t sleep or…or…be by myself!”

“You slept okay last night. At least, you finally did.”

“Because you were with me! You can’t sleep with me for the rest of my life, Starsky! You can’t stay with me every minute of the day so I won’t…” he indicated the mess around him, “go bonkers!”  
“Like I said, give it some time.” Starsky ran his hand over Hutch’s arm reassuringly.

Hutch stared off into space. “I’ve gotta help myself. I go to that damned psychiatrist tomorrow, and I have to have a handle on this.” He looked at Starsky, eyes determined. “I want you to lock me in the closet.”

“What?” Starsky stood up.  “Hutch, don’t be ridiculous!”

“Starsky, I need to do this. If I can sit in that closet for ten minutes, in the dark, by myself…I should be okay.”

“I am not going to lock you in a closet,” Starsky stated flatly.

“Starsky, _please_!” Hutch implored, rising from the chair and following his partner around the room.

“Watch out, Hutch. You’re barefoot. I’m gonna sweep this stuff up.” He went into the kitchen and came back with the broom. As he swept, Hutch kept telling him all the reasons why he needed to do this for him. “If you really want to help me, lock me in that closet!” He ended up shouting.

Starsky stopped sweeping. “You know what it’s gonna feel like…you being in there in the dark. It’ll bring it all back to you.”

“It’s coming back anyway! I can’t even close my eyes without being there again in that c-crate!”

Starsky squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t stand watching his partner becoming a stuttering mess again. “Okay. Ten minutes. That’s it, Hutch. Then you’re outta there.”

Hutch took a breath. “Okay, okay. You’ll see…this is going to help me.”

Walking over to the coat closet, he jerked it open, hesitating on the threshold.

“You don’t have to do this, Hutch,” Starsky said, watching him.

“Yes, I do.” Hutch determinedly walked into the closet and sat down. “Close the door, and lock it.” Why his closet had a lock on it, he didn’t know, but it did, and he was thankful for it now.

“Well, I’m gonna be sitting here on the other side of it, and don’t even try to talk me outta that,” Starsky grumbled as he closed the door.

“I’m counting on it, pal. Now lock the door.”

“Why do I have to lock it?” Starsky asked from the other side of the wood. “You should be able to get out if you really have to.”

“No, that’s the thing—I’m perfectly safe in here, and I want to know that I’m stuck for the full amount of time. And don’t you let me out until the ten minutes are up, no matter what I say!”

Starsky sighed. He didn’t like this at all, but he’d go along with his partner’s crazy plan, because he knew Hutch wanted to feel like he was in control. Starsky very well knew that that had been the need behind Hutch tearing apart his living room.

 Taking a seat on the floor, he waited, his eyes on the clock on the wall, which seemed to be moving with an agonizing slowness. He knew Hutch had to be suffering in there alone and in the dark.

“You okay in there?” He called when two quiet minutes had passed.

“Yeah,” came the strangled reply. Starsky didn’t think Hutch sounded very good, but like he’d said…he was safe in there. It was only his fear he had to conquer.

There wasn’t much noise coming from the closet except for occasional movement. Starsky was beginning to think Hutch’s plan was working, when his panicked voice came from the other side of the door. “Starsky, let me out.”

Starsky glanced at the clock. “It’s been seven minutes, Hutch. Three more to go.”

“Starsky, I said let me out!”

Starsky took a deep breath. “You told me not to, remember? You said to make you wait the full ten minutes no matter what—“

“Goddamnit, Starsky, LET ME OUT OF HERE!” Something in Hutch’s voice besides the extreme rise in volume made Starsky scramble up and unlock the door. When he pulled it open, Hutch practically fell into his arms, where he clung to him, a shaking mass of near-hysteria.

“Oh, my god!” he heaved. He was sweating all over. Starsky led him to the couch.

“I thought you were doing so good!” he told Hutch, smoothing his hair away from his eyes. “What happened?”  
Hutch sat down and brought shaking hands up to his face. “I-I thought I could do it! I really thought I could. But even though I was sitting up instead of lying down, it felt just like the c-c-crate!”

Starsky winced at the way Hutch was still unable to say the word ‘crate’ without stuttering. “Easy now, partner,” Starsky rubbed his back. “You’re fine. And you did stay in there seven minutes, which is pretty good.”

“Yeah,” Hutch nodded, still breathing hard. He swallowed. “Yeah,” he repeated, looking at Starsky gratefully. “What am I going to tell that psychiatrist tomorrow?”

“Just tell the truth, Hutch. You have good reason to be traumatized by what happened to you. He’s there to help you work through it. So you may not get to go back to work for a while—you could use a vacation. And I’ll get Dobey to put me on desk work while you’re out.”

Hutch blinked. “Really? You think he will?” and then, “You hate desk work!”

“I hate being on the street without you more. Come on, now, let’s not get all mushy about this. Why don’t you go take a shower? You’re sweatin’ like a big, blond pig.”

“Okay,” Hutch stood up, teetering on his feet. He smiled a little. “Kinda hard to get mushy anyway, when you call me a pig.”

“Hey, and do pigs really sweat? I always wondered where that expression came from.” Starsky steered Hutch to the bathroom by his elbow, grinning because he could see Hutch was really considering the question.

While Hutch was showering, Starsky went and sat in the closet. It was dark and close in there, and it made him think about what it would be like to be lying down with hardly any room to move, knowing you were running out of air and that there was six feet of dirt piled on top of you and you couldn’t get out no matter what you did. He practically had a panic attack himself.

“Starsk?”

“I’m in here,” Starsky opened the closet door and looked out sheepishly.

“What are you doing?” Hutch stood with a towel wrapped around his waist, his hair dripping onto his bare shoulders.

“Just seeing what it’s like in here.”

“Oh.” Hutch gave him a tender look before going in the bedroom to put on some pants. He returned wearing his loose pajama bottoms. Starsky had the broom and was finishing the clean-up.

“I don’t think your TV’s gonna make it, Hutch,” he said sorrowfully, looking at the cracked screen and the wires coming out of it.

Hutch sighed, picking it up and placing it by the door along with the broken lamp. “Thanks for cleaning up here, buddy. Let me fix us something to eat.”

He went into the kitchen and began rummaging around. “Hot dogs okay?”

“Sure,” Starsky agreed. He checked to make sure he’d gotten up all the broken glass before going to take a shower himself. When he returned, Hutch had hot dogs and chips on the table, along with all the fixings.

They were silent while they piled stuff on their hot dogs, each thinking about what had transpired but not wanting to talk about it.

“I’d suggest a little TV, but…” Hutch waved his hand toward the broken machine near the door.

“We could play a game,” Starsky replied. “Cards, maybe.”

Hutch grunted, and took a bite of his hot dog, washing it down with beer. The storm was miles away, and the last, faint rolls of thunder shook the foundations. It was still raining hard. Hutch found that he didn’t feel quite as claustrophobic with Starsky there in the apartment with him, but he still cast a longing glance toward the window. His partner noticed, but remained silent, chewing his hot dog.

After a couple of games of poker and several beers, they headed to bed.

“I was gonna leave the lamp on tonight to give you some light,” Starsky replied, shedding his clothes and climbing into bed in his underwear, “but you broke it. I think the overhead light would be too much.”

“That’s okay, Starsk. I’ll be fine.” _As long as you’re here._ Hutch climbed in next to him. He often referred to Starsky as “the human furnace” because he put off so much body heat.  When they were on stakeouts on cold nights, Hutch often gravitated toward him on the seat in order to keep warm. It was the same now, for Hutch felt chilled to the bone, while Starsky was perfectly comfortable wearing his tiny briefs. Hutch suspected that part of the reason for his own lack of warmth at the moment was his uneasy state of mind.

“I feel so stupid,” Hutch said after a few long minutes of silence.

“What for?”  
“Just for needing you here.”

“Aw, come on, Hutch. We’ve always been there for each other. I wanna be here for you now.” Starsky reached over in the bed and clasped Hutch’s hand in the dark.

“Thanks, buddy. I-I was afraid you wouldn’t come. Because I acted like I wanted to be alone.”

“I think I know you well enough by now to know when you really want to be alone, and when you’re puttin’ on an act.”

“Thank God,” Hutch sighed and moved restlessly in the bed.

Starsky intended to wait until Hutch went to sleep before closing his own eyes, but he must’ve drifted off, because the next thing he knew, he was awakened by his partner thrashing around in the bed.

No coherent words came out of Hutch’s mouth, just a lot of mumblings and groans, but Starsky could hear the terror in those noises, and he scooted closer to him and wrapped his arms around him.

“You’re shaking,” he said into Hutch’s ear, resting his head on the pillow beside him. “Hutch, buddy, wake up. It’s just a dream.”

Hutch’s breathing accelerated and he struggled as though restrained, even after Starsky released his hold. Knowing how much it had helped the night before, Starsky pressed his lips to Hutch’s temple, murmuring, “It’s okay, buddy. Wake up, now, I’m here.” He kissed down the side of his face and petted his stomach, which was tense and hard. “Come on, pal, wake up for me. You’re at home in bed. Everything’s fine; you’re safe.” He gently kissed Hutch’s cheek.

After a few moments of this, Hutch’s breathing slowed down.

“That’s it, big boy,” Starsky’s voice rumbled in the dark. He moved his hand to smooth over Hutch’s chest. “Everything’s good. We’re in your bed, and you’re safe.” It felt a little odd saying those words--- _we’re in your bed;_ they were so intimate. But Starsky had to acknowledge that they also felt right, and he kept talking to Hutch and petting him until his breathing evened out and he fell into a deep, peaceful slumber.

Rolling back to his own side of the bed, Starsky lay staring into the darkness around him. He was comfortable lying there with Hutch, just as he’d been comfortable petting and kissing him. He had no desire to be back in his own apartment and bed, as he frequently had when spending the night with a woman. He wondered what that meant. There was a warm and loving feeling that came from being with his partner, and with being able to assuage Hutch’s fears during such a horrendous nightmare-- to bring him out of it and into a serene state without ever even having awakened him. It gave him a sense of power and filled him with so much love, he didn’t know what to do with it all. He had the overpowering urge to grab onto Hutch and …to show him somehow just how much he meant to him. He realized with a small jolt that he’d never felt exactly this way with anyone else in his life, and he again wondered what it meant. Finally, he quit wondering and drifted off to sleep.

***

Hutch’s appointment with the psychiatrist was at one o’clock, and Starsky tried to remain nearby while he went in to talk to him. Since Dobey had him running from one department to another on increasingly complicated errands, this wasn’t easy. On one of his trips by the psychiatrist’s office, he heard Hutch’s voice raised in anger. Starsky stopped and stood stock-still in the middle of the hall, the pile of files that Dobey wanted taken to records clutched to his chest.  There was little he could do, though, short of barging in, which wouldn’t be received well by either Hutch or Dr. Bowers, so he slowly continued on down the hall.

During the ride there, Hutch had been silent, but he’d reached for Starsky’s hand at one point and steadfastly held onto it until they’d arrived at Metro. Starsky felt that this was a baby step in the right direction…Hutch still didn’t feel comfortable in the car, but he hadn’t made Starsky stop so he could jump out of it, either.

“Starsky!” Dobey’s roar stopped him in his tracks.

“Yes sir?”

“In my office.”

Starsky followed his captain down the hall. Once seated with Captain Dobey facing him from behind his desk, he looked questioningly at his superior.

“I want to know—truthfully-- how Hutchinson is doing,” Dobey demanded.

“He’s doing as well as can be expected, Cap’n. He has some trouble sleeping, but he _is_ sleeping. He’s worried about his progress, but he’s definitely making some. I just think it’s gonna take time.”

“He’s not going to be able to come straight back to work,” Dobey stated.

“We talked about that. He knows it.”

Dobey let out a huff of air. “I’ll see what Dr. Bowers says. I just wanted to hear from you first. You think he’s going to be forthcoming with the doctor?”

“Hutch knows he has to be one hundred percent when he goes back on the streets,” Starsky replied in answer. “He doesn’t take that lightly.”

Dobey nodded and dismissed him.

Before Starsky left the room, he turned and said, “I don’t wanna go out there without him, Cap’n. Give me desk duty.”

“I was thinking you could use a week off. Then, when Hutchinson’s ready to come back, he could join you on desk duty for a while.”

Starsky smiled softly. “Thanks, Cap’n.”

“Now get outta here and get to work!” Dobey bellowed.

***

It took several weeks for Hutch to be able to sleep through the night without the insidious dreams. Starsky stayed with him constantly for the week that they had off and continued spending the night with him until the dreams stopped.  The way Hutch reacted during those times scared him so much that he refused to consider anything else. It was with reluctance that he spent his first night alone in his own apartment, not sleeping a wink because he was so worried about his partner.

Hutch saw Dr. Bowers every day, verbally reliving the experience underground until the power it had over him loosened. It was a painful, but cathartic part of the process of healing. It took a while, but he was soon comfortable riding in a car again, and being able to drive himself soon followed that, although he was still uncomfortable in elevators and other small spaces.

After two weeks, Hutch was back at the precinct and on desk duty until deemed he was ready for the streets .  He insisted on making a visit to the state pen where Forest was now in solitary confinement, awaiting his court date. He and Starsky took an early morning flight to Sacramento, where they checked into a motel and rented a car, then drove to Folsom State Prison. While Starsky watched from the other side of the glass, his partner calmly showed the mobster that he hadn’t won and assured him that he was never going to see the light of day. This empowering visit went a long way toward Hutch’s complete recovery.

Back in their hotel room, Hutch was on a high. “I’m going to take you to the nicest restaurant in town,” he announced to Starsky.

“I’d be happy with a burger joint,” Starsky replied, stretching out on one of the two beds.

“Sorry, but that just isn’t good enough for my partner,” Hutch stated emphatically as he stripped off his clothing. “Got anything dressy to wear?”

“Aw, Hutch! If this dinner’s to treat me, why’re you making me dress up? You know I hate that!”

Hutch stood over him wearing only his underwear, hands planted on his hips. “Wouldn’t you enjoy a nice steak?”

“Sure, but we don’t hafta dress up for that! How about a steak house?”

Hutch sighed. After all, he _was_ doing this for Starsky. “Okay. It’s a deal. Come on.”

With a triumphant grin, Starsky stood up, then yelped in surprise as his partner swept him up in an all-encompassing hug that literally took his breath away.

“Love you, partner,” Hutch said softly in his ear.

“Love ya, too, you big lug!” Starsky ruffled Hutch’s hair and stepped away. “Now get dressed. I’m hungry!”

After a huge dinner of steak, baked potato, and salad, the partners returned to their motel room, a little tipsy from all the wine they’d drunk.

“God, Hutch. I think that was the best meal I’ve had in years!” Starsky enthused, rubbing his flat belly.

“Glad you liked it, buddy. You deserved it after all the help you’ve given me.” Hutch headed into the bathroom and turned the shower on. Starsky puttered around the motel room, turning down the bed and taking off his clothes in preparation for his own shower. Hutch came out of the bathroom buck naked, rubbing a towel through his wet hair. As Starsky passed him, he slapped the naked rump, causing Hutch to jump.

“Ow!” Hutch made a swipe for Starsky, who easily evaded him and headed for the shower.

Five minutes later, when he exited the bathroom, the room was dark and Hutch was in bed.

“Starsk?” the soft voice came from the other side of the room.

“Yep.”

“Come ‘ere.”

Starsky padded over to the bed. “Yeah?”

Hutch scooted over and patted the mattress. “Get in bed with me.”

Starsky frowned, wondering if Hutch was having some kind of relapse or something. Maybe seeing Ben Forest in person had shaken him up. Tossing his damp towel over into the corner, Starsky climbed under the covers. When his partner pulled him closer and pressed his soft lips to his, he gasped audibly.

“Gonna hit me?” Hutch whispered into his mouth.

“What? Uh…no…Hutch, what’s going on?”

“You think I was completely out of it those night’s you kissed me out of my nightmares?”

Starsky blushed furiously. “You mean you weren’t?”

“Nope. And you know what else?”

Starsky was a little afraid to ask. “What?”

“I don’t like sleeping without you.” He wiggled closer, his naked body coming into contact with Starsky’s. “And you know what else?”

“W-what?” Starsky asked hesitantly, fire licking at his groin.

Hutch kissed his partner softly. “I love you. I love you. I…(kiss)…love (kiss)…you.” He opened his mouth and kissed Starsky deeply, delving his tongue inside to rub against his partner’s. When he finally pulled away, Starsky was breathless, and both of their cocks were hard as stone.

Thrusting forward a little, Starsky said a bit shakily, “The feeling’s mutual, partner. This has been coming on for a while, I think.”

Hutch smiled and thrust back at him. “I think so, too. For me, it’s been quite a while. Over a year.”

Starsky’s eyes widened. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“It wasn’t the right time,” Hutch answered softly, his breath warm and smelling of wine.

Starsky placed a hand behind Hutch’s head and pulled him to him, kissing him thoroughly and hungrily, their cocks sliding against each other under the covers. It was a foreign, yet exquisite feeling. Hutch’s breathing picked up, and Starsky moaned longingly. The kiss deepened as they wrapped their arms around each other and Hutch pulled his partner on top of him. Straddling him, Starsky began to move more frantically, and soon their cries and groans filled the room.

Reaching between them, Hutch grabbed hold of their blood-engorged pricks, pressing them together and stroking them. Starsky sighed and moved his face to the crook of his partner’s neck, kissing and sucking there in between moans of pleasure as Hutch sent him skyrocketing.

They climaxed together, then lay entwined, breathing hard.

“That was….so good,” Starsky said contentedly.

“Yeah,” Hutch agreed.

They fell asleep in each other’s arms, both knowing that their lives had changed irrevocably for the better.

 

 

_finis_

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The characters from the television show "Starsky and Hutch" do not belong to me. I am only borrowing them for entertainment purposes.


End file.
